Julie Burchill's paen to all things Jewish will not be everybody's cup of tea, which is all the motivation one suspects the-ex Guardian writer would ever have needed. Yes, she rubs her philo-Semitism into the noses of the chattering classes and yes, enjoys every minute of it. What's not to like?
Tracing her admiration of all things Jewish from awkward West Country teenager to middle aged Hebrew student, Unchosen is a deliciously provocative memoir which boldly declares: So what I love all things Jewish. Deal with it. Age has not mellowed Ms Burchill one iota, thankfully.
This book is then both a rebuke and challenge. Its targets - of whom there are many - are carefully selected before receiving the full Burchill treatment. David Baddiel, India Knight and an excruciatingly right-on female, lesbian Rabbi from Brighton are mercilessly lampooned. Ouch! Miss Burchill's sting is as deadly as ever, even if her looks have, by her own admission, deserted her.
Spattered with an array of anecdotes (Tony Parsons was crap in bed) Burchill recalls her time at New Musical Express and a crush which lead to lunchtime sadomasochism sessions with what she terms the office's HJ (Hot Jew). Yup, it's pretty frank and all the better for it. Miss Burchill has (or is that had?) a thing about Jewish 'cock . . .'
The humour is always sharp, Burchill's eye for the absurd appears to have survived, but it's the indignation that really shines through here. Rising anti-semitism is a feature of 'polite' society, and it makes Burchill's blood boil as it should all of us. According to her, the Jews are a superior race, beautiful, intelligent and innovative - they've had to be in order to survive. Remember the Holocaust? asks the author on more than one ocassion, exaspeartion bubbling just beneath the surface.
Whether you agree or not with her special brand of philo-Semitism - and Burchill readily admits her own prejudices - it is hard not to share her indignation at what appears to be the face of acceptable racism within today's mainstream 'liberal' society. Burchill bristles with anger, just about containing it - and becoming ever more defiant in the face of it - ever more determined to display her philo-Semitism.
Shot through the book are references to 'whitey' and what she deems to be the causes of envy towards the Jewish race in contemporary society. At times, she's skating on very thin ice. When she says there is no finer sight than working class white girls pushing prams of mixed-race babies around, the question arises: Why? Those who believe that the push to 'punish' western Europe through mass migration is, at its heart, a Jewish scheme will raise more than an eyebrow at such statements.
And so it goes on. (Drunken) Israeli holidays are recounted, not sure if being pissed off your face is cool any more, but Burchill seems to think it is: so 1980s . . . Meanwhile husbands come and go, and the writer finally finds peace in Brighton where she attends synagogue once a week and learns Hebrew. She's a part-time Jew, a half-Jew. Jewishness is a hobby, seemingly.
Those who appreciate Burchill's waspish in-yer-face style will absolutely ADORE this (Only JB can use caps like this and get away with it). Upon its publication on 2015, some stuffy types were apparently far from thrilled.
Indeed, this strange brew of polemic and biographical THREE Rs - rambling, raging and romanticising - appeared to piss off just about every sanctimonious twat in town, including Will Self. So it can’t be ALL that bad, can it now?
7/10
Tracing her admiration of all things Jewish from awkward West Country teenager to middle aged Hebrew student, Unchosen is a deliciously provocative memoir which boldly declares: So what I love all things Jewish. Deal with it. Age has not mellowed Ms Burchill one iota, thankfully.
This book is then both a rebuke and challenge. Its targets - of whom there are many - are carefully selected before receiving the full Burchill treatment. David Baddiel, India Knight and an excruciatingly right-on female, lesbian Rabbi from Brighton are mercilessly lampooned. Ouch! Miss Burchill's sting is as deadly as ever, even if her looks have, by her own admission, deserted her.
Spattered with an array of anecdotes (Tony Parsons was crap in bed) Burchill recalls her time at New Musical Express and a crush which lead to lunchtime sadomasochism sessions with what she terms the office's HJ (Hot Jew). Yup, it's pretty frank and all the better for it. Miss Burchill has (or is that had?) a thing about Jewish 'cock . . .'
The humour is always sharp, Burchill's eye for the absurd appears to have survived, but it's the indignation that really shines through here. Rising anti-semitism is a feature of 'polite' society, and it makes Burchill's blood boil as it should all of us. According to her, the Jews are a superior race, beautiful, intelligent and innovative - they've had to be in order to survive. Remember the Holocaust? asks the author on more than one ocassion, exaspeartion bubbling just beneath the surface.
Whether you agree or not with her special brand of philo-Semitism - and Burchill readily admits her own prejudices - it is hard not to share her indignation at what appears to be the face of acceptable racism within today's mainstream 'liberal' society. Burchill bristles with anger, just about containing it - and becoming ever more defiant in the face of it - ever more determined to display her philo-Semitism.
Shot through the book are references to 'whitey' and what she deems to be the causes of envy towards the Jewish race in contemporary society. At times, she's skating on very thin ice. When she says there is no finer sight than working class white girls pushing prams of mixed-race babies around, the question arises: Why? Those who believe that the push to 'punish' western Europe through mass migration is, at its heart, a Jewish scheme will raise more than an eyebrow at such statements.
And so it goes on. (Drunken) Israeli holidays are recounted, not sure if being pissed off your face is cool any more, but Burchill seems to think it is: so 1980s . . . Meanwhile husbands come and go, and the writer finally finds peace in Brighton where she attends synagogue once a week and learns Hebrew. She's a part-time Jew, a half-Jew. Jewishness is a hobby, seemingly.
Those who appreciate Burchill's waspish in-yer-face style will absolutely ADORE this (Only JB can use caps like this and get away with it). Upon its publication on 2015, some stuffy types were apparently far from thrilled.
Indeed, this strange brew of polemic and biographical THREE Rs - rambling, raging and romanticising - appeared to piss off just about every sanctimonious twat in town, including Will Self. So it can’t be ALL that bad, can it now?
7/10
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